Elaine Grant - An Ideal Father

He had spent a lot of hours like this as a youth, fishing a favorite stream near his home, escaping his burdens for a few hours at a time. Nature was better than any therapy.

When the fly floated downstream, he cast again and placed the fly once more. Once in a while, R.J. would fish with him, on the rare and brief occasions when he and their father came home. As much as he resented their inevitable abandonment, Cimarron always enjoyed spending time with his brother. R.J. could usually outfish him, but it didn’t matter by the time they got home and fried the succulent trout. Today Cimarron missed his brother’s camaraderie more than ever. He tried to get his mind off R.J. and everything else that had dragged at his heart lately.

A trout rose to his fly but didn’t bite. Patiently mending his lie closer to the rocks, Cimarron watched the concentric circles disturb the pool’s smooth surface.

Like the ripple effects of his brother’s death. Complications Cimarron didn’t want or need—he’d never know if his tirade at R.J. that morning had caused his brother to rush so much that he was careless and fell off the scaffolding. He’d probably always believe he was responsible. He carried enough guilt around, without adding his brother’s death to the list. And Wyatt. Exhaling heavily, he looked to the endless blue sky above for an answer, a measure of peace from the terrible conflict that tore at him.

The trout rose, then darted away, like Cimarron, not yet brave enough to take the bait. Roll casting, Cimarron set the fly near the boulders again and again, searching for the elusive trout, but he found concentrating difficult today.

He hadn’t fathered that child. Why in hell would R.J. saddle him with a lifelong responsibility? There had to be other avenues. Adoption. Foster care. Something. Anything!

Then he felt the satisfying jolt. His trout was back. The fly disappeared. Line taut, rod bent double, the reel squealed as the trout ran. Cimarron played him, let him run, patiently stripping the struggling fish in. Its scales glinted silver in the sunlight as it leaped for freedom.

Unpleasant memories disappeared from Cimarron’s mind with the thrill of conquest. He could just stay right here in Little Lobo, guard his house from Sarah’s wrecking ball and fish until his problems resolved themselves.

“You got one, Unca Cimron!” Wyatt pranced along the bank. “You got a big one!”

Jolted from his concentration, Cimarron flinched. The trout took advantage of the slack line and escaped. Even had the gall to give a victory leap a few yards away before vanishing. Cimarron swore the damn fish grinned at him.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Cimarron shouted, turning to the child. “You made me lose my fish. Can’t you do anything…”

Wyatt crumbled visibly, his shoulders quivering as he backed away.

Right. Cimarron bit back the word. What was he doing? Saying the same devastating things to his young nephew that had so often sent him scurrying for a hiding place before his father could see the tears and give him still more grief. He was becoming the man his father had been.

“Hell, no!” he muttered. He sloshed to shore. “Look, Wyatt, I’m sorry I yelled.”

But the damage was done. The child retreated to the spot where he’d sat to eat, hugged his knees and hid his face. Cimarron squatted in front of him.

“Wyatt, look at me.”

Wyatt shook his head.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you, it’s just that the fish got…”

Got away. So what? It was a damn fish. He would have released it anyway.

Cimarron reached out to touch Wyatt’s shoulder but stopped short. He shook his head and stood up. What was the point? He didn’t know how to get through to the kid. He was rotten at this daddy charade anyway. He had to find a good, loving home for his nephew—with two parents who knew what they were doing.

From the corner of his eye, Cimarron saw a flash of movement. Adrenaline jolted his system.

“Don’t move, Wyatt,” he commanded softly. The child reacted by lifting his head to look at Cimarron. “Don’t move. Stay real still.”

SARAH PRESSED HARD against the cordless screwdriver, forcing the screw into the brittle wood. The soft whirring sound grew weaker by the moment as her batteries lost power.

“Just two more,” she begged between clenched teeth. She drove another one flush with the plate of the metal hasp. Her screwdriver finally ground to a stop with a few threads left on the last screw, but the result was good enough.

This was her third latch. She’d been lucky that Harry Upshaw was willing to bring them to her while she finished cleaning up in the café after breakfast. She didn’t tell him why she wanted them and she wouldn’t let him put them on for two reasons. One, it might actually be against the law to padlock the property if Cimarron’s claim was legal, and she didn’t want Harry to get in trouble; and two, she wanted the personal satisfaction of being the one to lock out the man who had stolen her property. Furthermore, she didn’t want Harry or anybody else to know about her predicament right now. Replacing the screwdriver in her toolbox, she threaded a heavy padlock through the loop and snapped it closed, as she’d done on the other two doors of the old house.

“There, maybe that’ll keep him out for now.”

She peered across the valley, expecting to see Cimarron return from fishing any minute. She’d watched from her bedroom window early that morning as he stalked off down the trail, fishing gear in hand, with his cute little boy trotting hard to keep up. She wondered about the story behind their odd standoffish relationship, but told herself she probably was better off not knowing.

Glad to finish her chore without being caught, she hurried back home and put away the tools, then changed into jeans, boots and a sweater and locked her own doors. She got into her small SUV and pulled onto the main road in the direction of the Rocking R Ranch. She needed to get away, to put distance between herself and her problem; to spend the day in the fresh air and solicit advice from Kaycee, who had been her best friend ever since she’d opened the clinic next door to the café two years ago. Sarah loved spending time at the ranch. Something fun was always happening on Sunday afternoons and the high spirits of the kids were contagious.

As usual, Sarah was greeted by two Australian shepherds and a mutt named Sam that Kaycee had rescued. Four of the seven Rider children raced from the house, waving and shouting when they saw her, and not breaking stride until they disappeared into the darkness of the barn.

Kaycee greeted Sarah from a paddock across the graveled parking area where she waited with two saddled horses.

“Come on, I’ve got the horses saddled. Let’s go for a ride.”

“Wonderful,” Sarah said, climbing the paddock fence to mount her favorite mare and follow Kaycee through the gate.

Kaycee’s tawny hair was pulled into a ponytail that was looped through the back of a baseball cap. Tall, slender and athletic, Kaycee could manhandle a yearling steer with the best of men and had earned the respect of even the surliest ranchers for her knowledge and quiet competence as a largeanimal vet.

A woman vet in a tough, mostly male environment, Kaycee could hold her own. Yet Sarah had seen her in tears, too, torn between the career she’d worked hard to build and the man she loved. Sarah would bet Kaycee’s vet skills weren’t what ultimately won the heart of widowed rancher Jon Rider. Probably it had more to do with the smile that lit her green eyes and the loving, nurturing disposition that allowed her to become an instant mother to seven kids under the age of twelve. Never in her wildest dreams could Sarah imagine becoming an overnight mother and suddenly having seven kids. It boggled the mind. Sarah missed having Kaycee living next door at the clinic, but she would never begrudge her friend the happiness that was reflected in her face every day since she’d fallen in love.